Walking Away
by Animiga
Summary: What does it take to break a friendship? And what does it take to get it back? Jordan's got a problem and has to deal with it herself. Starts after It Happened One Night, slightly AU from there. JW.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

Well, you're just across the street  
Looks a mile to my feet  
I want to go to you  
Funny how I'm nervous still  
I've always been the easy kill  
I guess I always will

Could it be that everything goes 'round by chance? (chance?)  
Or only one way that it was always meant to be (be)  
You kill me, you always know the perfect thing to say (hey hey, hey hey)  
I know what I should do, but I just can't walk away

I can picture your face well  
From the bar in my hotel  
I wish I'd go to you  
I pick up put down the phone  
Like your favorite Heatmeiser song goes  
It's just like being alone

Oh God, please don't tell me this has been in vain (vain)  
I need answers for what all the waiting I've done means (means)  
You kill me, you've got some nerve, but can't face your mistakes (hey hey, hey hey)  
I know what I should do, but I just can't turn away

So go on love  
Leave while there's still hope for escape  
Got to take what you can these days  
There's so much ahead  
So much regret  
I know what you want to say  
(Know what you want to say)  
I know it but can't help feeling differently  
I loved you, and I should have said it  
But tell me just what has it ever meant

I can't help it baby, this is who I am (am)  
Sorry, but I can't just go turn off how I feel (feel)  
You kill me, you build me up, but just to watch me break (hey hey, hey hey)  
I know what I should do, but I just can't walk away

- "Kill," Jimmy Eat World

Woodrow Wilson Hoyt sat on the edge of the small bed in the small hotel room, which resided in a small hotel in a small, remote corner of Boston. In one hand, he held the held the receiver of the old rotary dial phone which rested on the bedside table. Briefly, his mind thought about how heavy it was. The handset alone weighed more than twice his cell phone. His cell phone. He had tried to use it to make the call a few minutes ago. He had dialed the first two numbers before remembering that his cell phone had long since been disconnected. And so here he was, receiver in his left hand, his right hand poised over the number pad.

Abruptly he hung the receiver back on its cradle. How could he call her now? After all that had happened between them in the past few months… Their relationship had always moved slowly. So slow, in fact, his buddies at the precinct joked, that they were pretty much going backwards. But the last time he had seen her, everything had happened so quickly – and not in a good way. The relationship had spiraled. It had come to the point where every time they met, it was impossible not to get in an argument, no matter how much Garret, Nigel, Bug, Lily, Matt, Annie or even Roz tried to distract them. And that day – that pivotal day, he had lain down the law.

Would he have done it again, if he had known the consequences? Known that he wouldn't see her or anyone else familiar for weeks, months? He'd asked himself the same question hundreds, thousands of times since then. He still didn't know the answer.

He picked up the phone again. Had anything changed since that night? Had she forgiven him for what he had done yet? Had he forgiven her for what she had been doing to him? He hesitated a second more before realizing that it didn't matter anymore. Right now, he needed her. He needed her presence, whether vocal or physical. And he needed her to explain what had happened today. She was the only one he knew who might be able to. At least, he hoped and prayed she was.

Taking a breath, he dialed the seven numbers that would either raise him up or send him back into hell.


	2. Woody

**Chapter 1: Woody**

_Five months earlier…_

"Well, here's to the old bastard. May he go where ever the hell he pleases and never come back." Jordan held up her glass in mock salute and then drank the entire two fingers of whiskey in one gulp.

Woody also drank deeply from his glass, though his contained only cranberry juice. He rarely drank more than two drinks in one night, and he had passed his self-imposed limit more than two hours ago.

"Are you sure you want to go that far, Jordan? I mean, he did come for you tonight. I couldn't get him to stay behind tonight. In fact, I had to convince him to let _me_ come." He watched her reach drunkenly for the whiskey bottle and pour herself another drink, draining the last remaining contents.

"Woody, I learned more about my father in the last twenty-four hours than I've learned in all my years of snooping around his back."

Woody raised an eyebrow. Jordan was a remarkably coherent drunk. And he should know. It seemed as though she had been perpetually drunk since her father left town again the night before. "We all have our secrets, Jo." He reached out and took away the second bottle of alcohol – this time vodka – which she had just opened. "I'll admit, Max has more than most, but if he doesn't want to share them, that's his problem, not yours."

Jordan made a feeble attempt to retrieve the bottle, but then put down her glass and ignored him as he returned it to the cupboard above the her refrigerator. "I know. He's a big boy. I'm an adult too, Woody. I told him that the other night, too. But it makes it all worse. No more innocence. No more child's eyes. I know exactly how bad what he did was. Is. And he never trusted me enough to tell me. Then he waltzes in –"

On the word 'waltz,' she does her own impromptu waltz, nearly tripping over her own feet and the chair in her apartment. Woody nearly reached out for her, but she righted herself almost instantly. She might be a coherent drunk, but her sense of balance was always gone within minutes of any kind of alcohol consumption.

"– drops off his dirty laundry, and then waltzes right back out. And the only reason he told me was because Cahill came around and blew the lid off the whole thing!" She flopped down onto the couch.

"Okay there, tiger. I think it's time for you to hit the sack."

"How come he did this to me Woody? Doesn't he know how much it hurts?"

Woody lifted her feet up onto the couch and pulled down the throw blanket that rested along the back of the couch. "I'm sure he has his reasons, Jordan. There's only so much you can do for him. The rest has to come from him."

"You're such an optimist, you know that? It really pisses me off sometimes," she said, her eyes, which had been drooping the last 20 minutes, finally closed.

Woody chuckled. "I was more optimistic before I met you." The truth was he'd never been an optimist. Not since he was four and his mother died, no matter how much he had begged, pleaded and prayed. No. Inside, what he actually did was prepare for the worst. Then, he was pleasantly surprised when things did work out. That, and his own out-loud wishful thinking was what the others saw when they looked at him. "Get some sleep. I'll see you tomorrow night at work." Tonight was Friday, well, actually, it was technically Saturday now, and both he and Jordan were working third watch on Saturday.

He heard her mumble a few more things as he tucked the knit blanket around her shoulders. He dropped a light kiss on her forehead before quickly and quietly cleaning up the kitchen, then making sure all her doors and windows were locked. He took one last look at her, wishing she didn't have to face her father's betrayal like this, that he could stop her pain, before letting himself out and locking the door behind him.

What he didn't see was Jordan, jumping up from a dream an hour later. For a few moments, she sat disoriented, shivering, on the couch. Then, having caught her bearings, she stood, dragging the blanket around her shoulders. She stumbled into the kitchen, making her way in the dark. Reaching up above the refrigerator, she pulled down the bottle of vodka Woody had put away earlier. Opting to forgo a glass, she drank directly from the open bottle, needing the strong liquor, needing anything, to stop the haunting dreams that had plagued her during the last few nights and that seemed especially vehement tonight.

"God damn you, Dad," she whispered, taking another drink from the bottle.

**Part 2**

"Hey Bug. Have you managed to come up with anything on that guy we found in the park the other day?" Woody stepped off the elevator, the doors closing just as he saw Bug coming out into the lobby of the morgue.

Bug reached out, seeing the elevator closing. The door ignored his plaintive summons, and closed anyway. "Aw, man. Today's going to be one of those days," he muttered. Then, looking up at Woody, "Um, yeah. The guy died of natural causes. Poor guy had a heart attack. There was already some dead heart muscle, so this wasn't his first. Sleeping out in the cold and under that bush where no one could see him didn't help either."

"Good." Woody rocked back on his heels. "Well, not good that he's dead, but the fact that it was natural causes will make my job easier. Could I get a copy of the death certificate for the file?"

"Find Emmy. She'll help you get a copy of the C.o.D. cert. I'd love to help you right now," Bug said, reaching behind Woody to press the call button for the elevator again. "But Nigel and I've been called out to an accidental drowning at some health club over on 7th. Nigel's getting the van," he explained when he saw Woody looking around for the tall Brit.

"Well, good luck with that one," Woody said, moving away and into the morgue. He paused, and turned back to Bug, who already had one foot in the now arrived elevator. "Hey Bug, wait."

Bug turned, holding the door with one hand. "Yeah?"

"I though Jordan was on call today."

Bug grimaced. "She's on a bit of a time out. She came in today with one massive hangover and pissed off at everyone. She yelled at Dr. Macy and now he's making her do all her backlog of paperwork. I was supposed to be in trace today, but now I'm stuck going out on calls."

Woody frowned. She hadn't been that drunk last night, had she?

"Hey Woody." Bug caught his attention again.

"Yeah?"

"I know you took Jordan home the other night. What did you do to her? She's so pissy she even yelled at Lily." He stepped into the elevator and let it close.

"Hey, don't look at me! I didn't do anything." Woody said as the elevator slid shut and Bug disappeared.

He shook off Bug's warning while he obtained a copy of the death certificate from Emmy. Then, the warning back in his head, he stepped into Jordan's office. "Hey, Jordan. How're you feeling?"

She didn't even look up. "Don't get me started. First, I wake up on the living room floor with a massive hangover, and then Garret takes me off call and sticks me with all this paperwork! Look at this!" She pointed to a stack of charts and papers on the left side of her desk. It must have been over a foot high. The only reason it wasn't higher, he realized, was because it would have toppled over. In fact, it looked as though it already had. There was a roughshod pile of charts and papers on the floor next to her desk.

"Well, we've all told you to do your paperwork the same day."

"Oh shut up, ya Boy Scout."

Woody couldn't help but smile a bit at that remark. But then it faded. "Are you okay? Bug said you had a bit of a hangover. I didn't think you had _that_ much to drink."

She finally stopped writing and looked up, sighing and rubbing her temples. "I didn't. I think all the emotions just kind of caught up with me at the same time. Plus I didn't sleep very well. But hey, thanks for cleaning up and locking everything."

"No problem. Look, I've got to get back to the precinct, but I'll see you later, okay?"

Her head was back down in the papers. "Yeah, yeah. Get back to doing your cop stuff. I'm on detention. I'm not allowed to go out and play. I'm being traumatized. You can buy me a beer later to make up for it."

"Happy paperwork day, Jordan," he chuckled as he stepped out of her office and closed the door. Looking back through the glass window, he saw that she hadn't even looked up to flip him off in response. He laughed harder.

But that was how it started. That night, after both their shifts had ended – during which Jordan had managed to get through about 90 percent of her paperwork – he had taken her out for a drink. He had taken her to O'Malley's. Now that she had sold the Pogue and it was closed for remodeling by the new owner, it was the bar most frequented by the local cops.

And after what happened the night before, he watched how much she drank. She limited herself to only three, while he only had one since he was driving and he was going to Mass the next day. For hours, they had talked, lamented about the evils of paperwork and then he had driven her home, walking her all the way to her door. Knowing she didn't want and wasn't ready to go further, he dropped a kiss on her forehead and said good night.

Two weeks passed, and he noticed that she had a lot more headaches at work. And she was more abrupt, and had even less patience, something he didn't think was possible. She was snapping at everyone – Bug, Lily, Garret, Nigel, even him. The times they went out together, by themselves or with friends, and he found himself watching how much she drank. Each time she had one more. And she was moving from the low alcohol content fruity drinks to the hard straight stuff.

Two more weeks passed, and one morning he came into her office to find her passed out, smelling vaguely like vodka, on the couch in her office. He found the half empty bottle in her desk drawer. When he woke her up and helped her home, she explained that they had just wrapped up a tough case – a little girl and her mother had been murdered by the abusive father as they tried to leave him. So he had let it go. That time.

He had taken her home. After he tucked her in, he again went around and checked the doors and windows. As he walked through the kitchen to reach the back door, he closed a couple open cupboards. One of them was above the refrigerator. The alcohol cabinet. Looking in, he saw that its contents were fully stocked. He frowned. The last time he had looked in this cabinet, almost a month ago, it had been fully stocked as well. But with different items. Where before it held one bottle each of gin, vodka and whiskey and half a dozen bottles of drink mixes, now the drink mixes were gone. In their place were more bottles of hard liquor. He could see a bottle of sherry – not the cooking kind – and at least three different brands of Vodka. He sighed as he shut the cabinet. He was going to have to have a talk with her.

Another three weeks. There was the incident with Cal. He had broken his own rule and had a few drinks after that one, but she had had more. Lily's mother had died. He sat with her and held her after she finished comforting Lily. She'd had a stiff drink after that one. More than once he realized, he had found himself telling her to take it easy on the alcohol.

When that failed, he had resorted to asking the bartender to start watering down her drinks.

One Tuesday night after work, Woody found himself at a bar with Lily, Matt, Nigel, Bug and Jordan. After Jordan's fifth drink in less than two hours, he found himself pulling her away from the bartender, at whom she was yelling freely.

"Come on, Jo. I think it's time to go." He held firmly to her wrist as she tried to go back to the bar and tear the young college age bartender a new one. Finally, she let herself be dragged away and out to his car.

"Jordan," he said as they got closer to her apartment on Pearl Street. "I think you've been drinking too much lately."

"What, because of that?" She jerked her thumb behind her. "I had a right to yell at him. He was watering down my drinks! I wonder if they do that to all their customers? It's not a good way to keep customers coming back. I should know. I owned a bar for a while."

"Jordan…"

"You know, we should start something. Tell everyone not to go there because they water down the drinks and still charge full price."

"Jordan…"

"We should start with the cops. They like to drink and live on basically a fixed income…"

"Jordan!"

"What!"

"All the bartender's there, and everywhere we go, water down your drinks," he said pointedly as he stopped the car outside her apartment. "Because I ask them too. You drink too much."

She turned toward him and let her mouth hang open. He waited for her to say something, but she didn't.

After a good fifteen seconds of silence, she suddenly, only a bit clumsily, unbuckled the seatbelt he had fastened on her and jumped out of the car, slamming the door behind her.

"Jordan, come on!"

"No," she shouted through the car window at him. "You have no right to do something like that. No right to judge me. You're not my father or my big brother. Hell, neither one of them cared enough to stick around, why should you!"

"Jordan…"

"No, Woody. I do not have a problem with alcohol. That's all I'm going to say." She lowered her voice, "Don't bother coming up." And she turned on her heel and stalked into the building.

He sighed and let his head fall to his chest. He definitely hadn't handled that right. But he didn't follow her. Instead, he waited until he saw the light go on in her apartment, then drove off to his own apartment.

After thinking about it, he realized that he hadn't given her a chance. She had been drunk when he confronted her. She may be a coherent drunk, but that didn't mean she could think clearly. So, the next morning he went to her office. And told her the same thing. And she promptly slapped him and told him to get out, repeating that she did not have a drinking problem. She physically pushed him out of her office, and slammed the door behind him.

Once outside her office, Woody took a deep breath and leaned against the wall. Her adamant denial had just confirmed his fear. Jordan Cavanaugh was an alcoholic.


	3. Nigel

**Chapter 2: Nigel**

Woody hadn't been the only one to notice the changes in everybody's favorite female ME. The others had noticed the change in her temperament too. But Jordan was never an easy person to confront. No one really wanted to take on the task of calling her on her problem. But Woody had. They'd all noticed how he had pulled Jordan aside on several occasions when they went out together. Nigel had, for sure, noticed how he had been asking the bartender to add ice or water to her drinks and adding the ice himself when they drank in private as a group. Everyone seemed to think that Woody would take care of it. He seemed to be the only one who wasn't afraid to go back to her after getting torn to shreds by her acerbic tongue.

Right now, Nigel was in trace, and had seen Woody come in this morning, heading directly for Jordan's office, a determined look on his face. It was about time, he thought, turning back to the fingerprints he was analyzing. Looked like the young detective was finally going to give Jordan what-for.

He was surprised to hear, not two minutes later, Jordan's door slamming shut. Poking his head out into the hall, his curiosity was peaked at seeing a dejected Detective Hoyt leaning against the wall.

"You okay there, Woodrow?"

Woody looked up. "Yeah."

His voice wasn't exactly brimming with confidence and happiness. "Have another lover's spat with our favorite brunette?" He joked, trying to lighten the ambiance.

For once, Woody didn't go along with the attempt. He looked up at Nigel – one of the few men he had to look up at – with a serious expression and a furrowed brow. "It's gone to far, Nigel," he said, running a hand through his short hair. He hefted himself off the wall and walked toward and then past Nigel. "She doesn't have much time left. Look, I've got to get to work. I'll try talking to her again tonight, but if that doesn't work, I just….I don't know what else to do."

Nigel couldn't think of anything to say. Instead, he found himself looking down the hall, watching Woody wait for the elevator then get on and disappear. Woody hadn't been his chipper self in weeks. Months, actually, when one thought about it. Years ago, when the team at the morgue had first met the young Wisconsinite, he had been so chipper and excited that it drove them all nuts. Of course, Boston police work and a certain medical examiner had brought him down a couple pegs to reality and he had seemed to stabilize at a lower level that didn't drive them all batty. But now… he seemed so dejected, worn out.

Nigel shook his head and went back into trace. He had heard all about Calvin's recent behavior with the mob from Jordan, and wondered if that was the cause. It probably was.

He went back to the mysterious fingerprint, not wanting to accept what was the more likely cause of Woodrow's melancholy: Jordan's behavior.

**Part 2**

Nigel was pissed. He was beyond furious. Livid. Incensed. He had just gotten off the morning shift a few hours earlier, and was supposed to have the next 48 hours off. He was planning on indulging himself with a nice day at the men's spa, then he was going to head over to the newest second hand book store and then a new shop that was supposed to be wickedly creepy, but full of forensically fascinating stuff.

But here he was, back in trace, covering for Sidney's butt. The stupid...short... wanker had managed to catch the stupid flu bug that everyone else had already had. And no one else had been able to cover, so here he was, less than 4 hours after he left, back in trace, this time pulling trace evidence off the body of a John Doe the police had found in the river. And this was the third one in a month, which meant he'd be stuck cross-referencing the cases, too. All he had wanted was a stupid day off.

"Damned wanker," he mumbled begrudgingly, glad that, as usual, the night shift was practically devoid of other personnel who might over hear him. Carefully, he used a pair of forceps to pull the remnants of what looked like duct tape from around one of the man's wrists. Just as he dropped it into the dish, he heard a knock against the glass that separated trace evidence from the rest of the office and then heard the door swish open. Looking up, he felt his jaw drop.

Standing in the doorway was Woody. The man's tie had been loosened to the point where it was nearly completely undone, and the top two buttons of his shirt were open. His suit coat was slung over one shoulder, held in place by one finger. But was most surprising was the presence of a long, deep cut over his left eyebrow. Blood still oozed from the cut, dripping down the side of his face and onto the collar of his blue shirt. He had most likely taken off the coat so he wouldn't get blood on it. Woody usually was rather protective of his clothes.

"Hey, Nige. Have you seen Dr. Macy? He's not in his office and he's not in autopsy."

"'Hey Nige!' Here you are bleeding out all over the floor, and all you can say is 'hey Nige?'" Nigel quickly stripped off the gloves he was wearing and put on a new pair as he hurried over to Woody. "Let me have a look at that."

"It's not _that_ bad. I'll take care of it later. Have you seen Dr. Macy?"

Nigel ran his fingers over the cut and Woody flinched. "He's here somewhere. He and I are the only ones here tonight, and he would have told me if he had to go out. That's actually pretty deep there, Woodrow. You're going to need stitches, and quite a lot of them. Let me just tell Dr. Macy and then I'll take you over to the hospital."

"I don't want to go to the hospital, but I'll take you up on finding Dr. Macy."

Nigel saw the determination on the detective's face. "Fine. Maybe he can convince you to go to the hospital, you big Neanderthal."

Woody rolled his eyes. "Just take me to Doc, will ya?"

"Fine," Nigel said, slapping through the doors of trace and heading down the hallway. "But don't blame me when that 'little scratch' gets infected and leaves a big bloody scar that makes you so ugly no one will go near you!" He huffed as he led Woody down the central corridor, searching for Dr. Macy. Finally, they found him in the freezer, cross-referencing toe tags.

Macy didn't looking up when he heard the door opening. "Nigel, I don't want to hear another word. There's no one else available right now, so you're just going to have to tough it out."

Nigel cleared his throat, causing Macy to look up. "Holy Hannah. What the hell happened to you?" Dr. Macy put down the clipboard and went over to examine Woody's cut, much like Nigel had a few minutes ago."

"Nothing. It's fine, Doc." Woody twitched, getting away from Garret's prying fingers. "Look, I need to talk to you."

"I'm not doing anything for you until you get this sewn up."

"That's what I told him too!" Nigel exclaimed. "But the stupid bloke won't do anything until he talks to you. _And,_ he said he doesn't want to go to a hospital."

Garret looked over to Woody, and must have seen something in the detective's expression that Nigel missed. "Fine. Nigel, grab a suture kit out of autopsy and meet me in my office. You can talk while I stitch you up," he said, pointedly addressing the bleeding man.

Woody nodded his acquiescence and Garret led him to his office while Nigel retrieved a suture kit. By the time he got back, Garret had Woody sitting on the edge of his desk and was cleaning the wound with sterile gauze and distilled water. Handing the needle and thread off to Dr. Macy, who obviously wanted to do the sewing himself, Nigel crossed his arms over his chest and settled in for a story.

Woody glared at him. Nigel just shook his head. "Oh, I'm not going anywhere. This promises to be a most interesting story, and I've got the feeling it's something I need to be in on.

After another couple moments, Woody acquiesced again.

Garret finished wiping away what blood he could from around the wound. "I think I've gotten all the glass out."

Nigel raised an eyebrow. This was getting more interesting.

"Sorry, but I don't have an anesthetic. We work mostly on dead people, and they don't really need it. I've got some whiskey in the cabinet if you want a shot of that though."

Woody shook his head fervently, inadvertently causing more blood to flow from the wound. "No thanks. I think tonight has sworn me off alcohol forever."

Nigel caught Dr. Macy's gaze. Something in Woody's tone made them both realized that this had something to do with Jordan Cavanaugh.

Garret wiped the field clear of blood again and began suturing. "Care to tell us what happened tonight? What's so important that you risked bleeding yourself into a deeper concussion to talk to me?"

Woody kept his head still, but glanced over to Nigel with his eyes. "You remember what happened this morning?"

Nigel nodded. "You went to talk to Miss Cavanaugh this morning, and she bodily threw you out and slammed the door. Wait, she didn't do this, did she?" He pointed to his head wound.

Woody started to nod, but then thought better of it when Garret gave him a harsh look and forcibly held his head still. "Yeah. Not on purpose, though."

Garret used one hand to lift Woody's head, forcing the young man to look him in the eye. "I think you'd better start from the beginning."

And Woody did. He explained how it had started the night after Max had left town again. How she had drunk her self to sleep for the first time since he'd known her. And how it had spiraled down from there. She had been drinking more. He recalled how she had been getting upset with others, but especially him, at the drop of a hat. Garret and Nigel both nodded as they recalled and recognized Jordan's behavior. Finally, he told them what had happened earlier in the evening.

* * *

_A knock sounded on her door, and Jordan begrudgingly put her drink down, flipped off the late night talk show she'd been watching, and went to answer it._

"_Oh, it's you." She turned and went back into the apartment, leaving the door open for him to come in if he chose. "Here to tell me again that I'm a drunk?"_

_He entered the room and shut the door before speaking. "No. I'm here to talk to you."_

"_You mean to give me another lecture."_

_Woody sighed. He'd been hoping he'd be able to start out on a neutral subject, as he had all those times with Cal. But it appeared that Jordan wasn't going to make it easy for him. "I'm not here to lecture you. I want to help."_

"_The only thing you're doing is trying to run my life. And I'm not going to let you."_

"_I'm not trying to run your life. I just want you to see that what you're doing is destroying yourself."_

_She harrumphed and took another sip from her glass._

_He cocked his head and picked up the half-empty bottle of vodka on the coffee table. "It's never a good idea to drink alone, Jordan."_

"_What the hell would you know about it, Mr. Saint?"_

_Woody let the bottle fall heavily back to the table. "I know a lot about it, Jordan. Remember my brother? NA, AA, GA?"_

_Jordan smirked. "And how far did that get you? He's still got problems. You didn't do shit for him. Hell, you probably made it worse, throwing your goody-two shoes attitude in his face every time he saw you."_

_He felt the sting, but ignored her words. "I tried to go through it with him. I know every step. And I know all the signs. And you're showing just about every single one."_

"_But not every one. See, you don't know everything."_

_He felt his patience finally waning, felt it evident in his voice. "I'm trying to help you, Jordan. I don't want you to hit that last sign. Look at yourself! You come home and drink alone. You yell at your friends. They avoid you at work just so you won't bite their head off. In the last month alone, I've watched you go into the store and come out with what's got to be nearly 100 dollars in alcohol. Twice! _

_She jerked her head back in disbelief. "You've been spying on me!"_

"_I've been trying to keep an eye on you Jordan. And I don't like what I'm seeing. Hell, you probably spike your coffee in the morning! You're drinking too much, and you need to get help."_

_She set the glass down hard. "You don't understand. It's the only thing that makes them stop!"_

_He let his shoulders drop. "Makes what stop, Jordan?" He moved closer._

"_The nightmares." Her own shoulders dropped. And she sagged down into a nearby chair. "They won't go away. They terrify me, but I don't know what it is I'm seeing…" Suddenly she looked back up. "No…you're not going to do this to me!"_

"_What am I trying to do Jordan?" Whatever progress had been made in the last 30 seconds was gone. He took a few steps back, into the kitchen._

"_There's nothing wrong with me! I can control my own life. I've been doing it for decades, even before my mother died." Her voice was rising again._

"_Jordan, please. I care about you. Let me help you."_

"_I don't need help. I don't need you to baby-sit me! All you ever do is make me feel bad because I can't be happy like you!" With that, she flung the glass at him._

_He was sure that she wasn't aiming for him. But it came awful close. The glass hit the corner of the refrigerator, which was mere inches from his head. It shattered, sending shards everywhere. He felt the heavy bottom of the glass hit his head and scrape down the side. Smaller shards pricked the skin around his ear. Fortunately, he closed had his eyes at her words, or he could have been blinded. When the glass settled, he touched the side of his head, feeling the blood drip down, wincing at the sting of the alcohol that had been in the glass. He took his coat off and looked up at her. "You're right. I can't help you. Congratulations, Jordan, you've just exhibited the last sign of an alcoholic. Get some help. You obviously don't want mine, but get some help." _

_He turned on his heel and went out the door, locking it behind him. _

_Back in the apartment, Jordan stood, still infuriated. What right did he have to tell her what to do? Fuming, she reached out for the bottle he had set down earlier._

_

* * *

_

"Jesus…," Nigel heard himself breathe. "She's really gone of the deep end."

"No," Garret said, tying off the last of the nine stitches he put into Woody's scalp. "She's just reached the end of her rope with Woody." He placed a dressing and bandage over the wound. "Come back in 5 to 7 days and I'll take them out."

"Thanks, Doc." Woody shrugged back into his jacket, the cold of the morgue finally seeping in.

Nigel shifted his weight. "I didn't think you'd have an end to your rope when it came to Jordan, Woody."

"It's not that, Nigel. It's just that I can't help her anymore. She was right. The minute she said that, I realized that all I'm doing is enabling her. I've been handling her with kid gloves and it hasn't worked. And now that she's hit that last sign of alcohol abuse, it might be best if I just step back for awhile."

Nigel frowned. "What do you mean she's hit the last sign?"

Garret finished cleaning up. "One of the most damaging and last signs of alcohol abuse is physically harming yourself or others while under the influence of alcohol."

"Ahh. And with Woodrow's little boo-boo here…" He let his voice trail.

"It's no longer a question of if she's an alcoholic, but what do we do about it," Garret stated, arms folded across his chest..

"Can you really become an alcoholic after just two months, though?"

Woody looked over at him, wincing has he tried to raise his eyebrow. "Addiction doesn't always take a long time. Jordan's already got a personality that's susceptible to addiction. Just look at what she does for her cases, or her mother's murder. If she latches on to something, for whatever reason, it's pretty hard for her to let go. No matter what the consequences."

The room was silent as the gravity of the situation permeated over the three men.

It was Woody who finally broke the silence. "That was what I wanted to talk to you about, Dr. Macy. I was hoping you could talk to her. There's nothing I can do, and with Max gone… Hell, actually if Max were here, I think he'd only make it worse…"

"Yeah, I'll talk to her," the older man said. "And if you really think you're enabling her, you're going to need to lie low for a while, away from her. You think you can do that?"

Woody glanced from Garret to Nigel and then back. He rubbed his fingers along the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, I can. Walcott and the chief have been asking me to go undercover on this recent string of murders. It'll mean cutting ties to everyone for awhile, but I think I'll take them up on their offer."

Nigel frowned. "Are you sure you want to go that far? That seems a bit drastic, I mean. Cutting all ties."

Woody nodded. "I know, Nigel. But I really care about her. I love her. And right now, this is the only thing I can do for her."


	4. Garret

I forgot this at the beginning: Disclaimer: I own no part of Crossing Jordan. I'm just playing with the characters for a while.

AN: this fic was inspired by the song at the beginning of chapter one (which I think fits Woody rather well), as well as my own observations about Jordan's behavior

Thanks to all who read! And to those who review, esp. Lioness-Rampant!

Okay, that's enough of me – on to the story!

**Chapter 3: Garret**

Garret sat in his office, his chair tipped back, fingertips coming together at his mouth. The early morning sun shone in through the window, creating a biting glare. Through the glass and the glare off window in front of him, he could still see Nigel changing the bandage on Woody's forehead. The two men then shook hands, slapping each other's shoulders at the same time. A few more words were exchanged and then Detective Hoyt took off. Nigel turned and met his gaze through the glass before turning in the other direction and going back, presumably, to trace.

Garret thought about all that had happened that night. After confessing the events of the last couple months, Woody's energy had almost instantly drained away. He had gotten to his feet, intending to drive home, but he and Nigel had stopped him. Even though the glass hadn't hit him head on, no pun intended, the fact that he had been hit on the head at all and the amount of blood on his collar had prompted them to take his keys away, afraid he might have a concussion and pass out on the road. Garret insisted that Woody sleep on the couch in his office. Woody hadn't had the energy to protest, had simply slumped down onto the couch and fallen asleep. He wasn't too happy, though, when Garret and Nigel took turns waking him every hour or so to make sure he didn't have a concussion.

Now it was morning, and Woody had said his good-byes. He had told them that he may go undercover as early as today, so he might not see them for awhile. He had asked that they both keep that information to themselves – for the integrity of the investigation.

"What should we tell Jordan when she asks? You know, starts digging a little deeper." Nigel had asked. "You know she will. Eventually," he added softly.

Garret glanced over to Woody, almost knowing the answer before he spoke.

Woody looked up at the two men he considered friends. "Ifshe ever asks, you mean. She's pretty mad at me." He sighed, then looked up at Garret. "Tell her whatever you think is best. And… and tell her I'm sorry I wasn't enough, that I wasn't what she needed."

And now Woody was gone. Garret stole a glance at his watch. It was 6:45 am. The morning shift, Jordan's next shift, was due on in just 15 minutes. He swiveled his chair in thought, wondering how in the hell he was going to confront a women whom he considered a good friend and almost a second daughter.

**Part 2**

Jordan was late. Garret glanced up for the third time in the last half hour. Usually she was a few minutes late. Fifteen at most. Finally, at quarter to eight, through the windows of the room he was in, he saw her. She had just stepped off the elevator and was talking with the receptionist. Her hair was pulled back in a hurried pony-tail, and she was wearing simple fare: jeans, a t-shirt-like top and her semi-standard boots. Turning away from the assignments board, he took a breath. It was now or never.

"Jordan," he said as he approached her, trying to keep his voice even.

"Oh, hey, Garret," she said brightly.

He frowned. She seemed a little too chipper. And upon closer inspection, he could see that her eyes were blurry and dilated. Wait, she wasn't…oh, for the love of… she was.

"You won't believe what happened to me! I'm all ready for work and everything, and get outside, and BOOM! Someone's stolen my car! I looked everywhere for it but finally had to take a cab to work. Can you believe that! Oh, hey. I should file a police report, right."

Jordan Cavanaugh was drunk. At work. At nearly 8:00 in the morning. "Excuse us," he said to Michelle, the morning receptionist. He grabbed Jordan's arm and hissed in her ear, "Come with me. We need to talk," and then unceremoniously let her to his office.

He pushed Jordan into the room ahead of him and then securely locked his office door. "Jordan, you what to tell me what the hell you're doing here in this condition?"

She frowned as she sat heavily on the couch. "You mean with my car stolen? I'm not really following you there, Gar."

"No, Jordan, not with your car stolen. And it's not stolen, by the way. You popped two tires at a crime scene yesterday and had to have it towed. What I mean, is what are you doing here drunk."

She went wide eyes for a half second, then gave him a 'pa-shaw' look and wave her hand at him. "Drunk. I'm not drunk. I just woke up, how could I be drunk?"

"Waking up drunk has been known to happen. Usually when you have a lot to drink and don't sleep long enough for it to get out of your system. That and the fact that you can't seem to walk straight, your eyes are glazed over and you smell like gin. You're lucky Michelle's got a cold and can't smell a thing right now."

Suddenly, Jordan seemed infuriated. She jumped off the couch and got in his face. "I am not drunk," she started to say. But she hiccoughed in the middle of her sentence and promptly stumbled over her own feet.

Garret rolled his eyes heavenward and then reached down to help her to her up. "Jordan, go home. Sleep it off. I'll talk to you later."

She tried once more to protest. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm scheduled for this shift and I'm supposed to work."

"Jordan," he said sternly. "Don't make me write you up. Come on, I'll call you a cab."

"I don't feel so good."

Garret cursed softly. The fight had gone out of her quickly and he felt her shoulders lurch under his hands. Quickly, he led her to the unisex bathroom across the hall, where she promptly threw up. He waited until it became mostly dry heaves, then helped her wash her hands and face. Gripping her shoulders, he went back to his office to retrieve his cell phone and wallet, then took her downstairs and hailed a cab. For a brief moment, he considered asking the driver to simply take her home, but the disposition of both Jordan and the driver convinced him otherwise. He got into the cab with Jordan, issued their destination, and pulled out his cell phone.

"_Boston Coroner. How may I help you?"_

"Michelle, its Dr. Macy. I need to talk to Bug… Hey, Bug?"

"_Yeah, it's me. What do you need? Why didn't you just shout for me like you usually do?_" Bug was a little confused to have his boss calling him from across the hall.

"Look, I'm out of the office, and will be for another hour or so. Think you can do the trace evidence on the new body that rolled in about an hour ago? The DA's pretty anxious to have it as soon as possible."

"_Sure. Are you out on a call? Should we be expecting another body?_"

"No, nothing like that. Jordan just showed up to the office, sick as a dog. I'm taking her home."

"_Ah. The evil little flu virus that's been hopping around. So we're going to be a short an M.E. today?_"

"Yeah. Call Sydney. See if he's any better and can help out today."

"_Oh joy. So not only do I get to work with Mr. Showoff, he's going to be sick too."_

"Bug, just do it, all right? I'm going to make sure Jordan gets her ass in bed."

On the other end of the line, Bug laughed. "_Good luck with that. We all know how stubborn Jordan can be, sick or not."_

Garret didn't bother to reply, just snapped his cell phone shut. Hopefully, no one back at the office had seen her long enough to realize that she was drunk and not sick with the flu. He looked over at the woman beside him. She was awake, but barely, leaning against the window, tracing shapes on it with her finger. He sighed. He hadn't wanted to believe that Woody was right, but the proof was here staring him in the face. And any intervention was going to have to wait until later, when she was lucid enough to understand what the hell was going on.

Fifteen minutes later, the driver stopped at her apartment building. Garret silently paid the driver, and then helped Jordan out of the car and up to her apartment. Fishing into the purse hung across her shoulder, he found her keys, grateful that she had at least remembered to lock her door and bring them with her, and helped her into the apartment. By then, Jordan was leaning heavily on him, almost completely asleep. Groaning, more from frustration than her slight weight, he managed to get her onto her bed. Luck was with him in that she hadn't made her bed, so he didn't have to pull down the covers. Once she hit the bed, she surrendered any semblance of consciousness, rolling over onto her side and curling up into her pillow. Garret pulled off her boots, placing them at the end of the bed. Briefly, he wondered how many times Woody had done exactly what he was doing today. Covering for Jordan and taking care of her. He shook his head and pulled the covers over her, closed the blinds to block out the now mid-morning sun, and left the room.

He wandered into the living room and spotted the source of Jordan's condition. On the coffee table were a mid-sized bottle of vodka – of a rather high proof - and two hard cider bottles, all empty. Picking them up, he wondered how late into the night she'd been drinking. But then he stopped short when he reached the kitchen and was confronted with the evidence of last night's events.

Shards of glass were sprinkled across the floor, concentrated at the base of the refrigerator. He saw half a dozen large drops of blood on the floor, and a small smear of blood on the side of the freezer door. All of it was no doubt Woody's. He grimaced, recalling Woody's account of the events and the rather copious amount of blood down the front of the detective's shirt. Had Jordan seen her kitchen this morning? If she had, did she remember? It certainly seemed like she had no idea what had happened last night. Garret stepped around the glass and put the four bottles into the recycling bin Jordan kept in the pantry. There, he found half a dozen more bottles. He stared at them for a while, sadness permeating further into his demeanor.

He straightened and closed the pantry door. How in the hell had Jordan functioned while drinking so much? He had no idea, but it was clear now, though, that she couldn't anymore. So now, it was time for tough love. It should have started weeks ago, and hopefully it wasn't too late.

He reached up into the cupboard above the refrigerator, where he knew the alcohol was kept, careful not to disturb any of the blood or glass. He wanted her to see them once she dried out. The cupboard was half full, and he pulled down each bottle, draining its contents into the sink and putting the bottles in the recycling. Hunting around, he found duct tape in one of the kitchen drawers. Of all the people he knew, only Jordan would keep duct tape and needle nosed pliers in the same drawer as the potato peeler and ice cream scoop. He would have preferred a hammer and nails, but this would suffice. He taped the alcohol cupboard closed, sealing each side with multiple layers. Satisfied with his work, he taped a short note to the cupboard then left her apartment. Like Woody, he made sure all the doors were locked before he left.


	5. Jordan

**Chapter 4: Jordan**

A bright light was the first thing Jordan Cavanaugh saw when she woke up in the morning. Shifting her head, she managed to stop the piercing brightness. Opening her eyes, she saw the source of the light. Her bedroom curtains – put in place because her bedroom faced directly east – were closed except for a small, two inch section in the middle where the two sides came together. Now, the bright mid-May morning sun was shining into her room in all its glory. Groaning, she rolled over, hoping she'd be able to reclaim the oblivion that was sleep. Now facing the other way, her eyes encountered the fluorescent green display of her alarm clock. 6:02 am. She groaned into her pillow again. She had to be at work in less than an hour. As it was, she had just enough time for a shower and, maybe, a decent cup of coffee. She made what felt like the ultimate sacrifice. She threw back the covers, got out of bed, and stumbled into the bathroom, peeling her clothes of as she went.

Jordan enjoyed the nice hot shower. The steam and pressure of the jets of water seemed to melt away the tension in her shoulders as well as ease the pounding headache that had appeared as soon as she stood up. Finally, knowing she had to get out or risk being _really_ late to work, she turned off the water stepped out. She dried herself with the towel and twirled a second one around her wet hair and onto the top of her head. She looked in the mirror and saw dark circles under her eyes. Work must be getting to her, she decided. There had been some tough cases lately, and she hadn't been sleeping well.

She finished her toiletries and went into her bedroom to get some clothes. She paused though, as she stepped over the clothes she had taken off on her way into the bathroom. Rather than her pajamas, she had taken off a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Jordan shook her head. No, she had most likely just forgotten to put last night's clothes in the hamper. She'd done it before and would no doubt do it again.

Ten minutes later, she had finished dressing, as well as her make up and hair. A record, she thought. Now having fifteen minutes before she had to leave, Jordan decided she'd reward herself with reading the newspaper – or at least the headlines – before heading to the kitchen in search of caffeine. Even if it was that instant junk that she kept on hand for her morning fix until she could get some real coffee. Unlocking the front door, she frowned. She'd forgotten to slip the chain in place again. Maybe if she put a post-it somewhere she'd start remembering. She quickly pulled the paper off her front door step and retreated back into her apartment. Shutting the door, she flipped through the headlines of the different sections.

"Bush Announces Reform Plan," she read aloud. "Gee, what else is new? Hmm, Potential Hike in Mass Transit Fees. Again, what else is new?" Sighing, she tossed the paper on the entryway table. It didn't look like there was anything interesting in the paper, again. It was time for coffee. And maybe she'd add a little hair of the dog. Maybe that would get rid of her headache. On her way to the kitchen, Jordan noticed that the red light on her answering machine was blinking. She hit play and turned up the volume so she could hear it while she got her coffee.

"_Hi, this is Greg down at Mike's Tow and Repair. I'm calling to let you know that we've repaired and reinflated both tires, as well as your spare, and your car is ready for pick-up. Come in anytime, or call us at 354-5934, and thanks for choosing Mike's."_

Jordan frowned. They must have called the wrong number. Shaking her head, she stepped into the kitchen. And froze.

"_Hey, Jordan, it's Bug." "And Lily," _a female voice said. _"And Lily,"_ Bug acknowledged. _"We just wanted to check on you. We heard you went home sick today. And hope you get better soon. Please. Garret's being a bear and Sidney's still a little sick and he's making the rest of us miserable. Give us a call when you feel better."_

Jordan felt her jaw fall open as she stared at the mess in her kitchen. Glass shards littered the floor, and she was glad she had, for once, put on shoes before coming into the kitchen. Stepping into the room slowly and gingerly, she saw the blood on the floor and the refrigerator. It was dry, and had changed to a dark red, indicating that it had been there for at least a day. Looking up, she saw the duct tape on the cupboard just as she heard a different voice on her answering machine.

"_Jordan, it's Garret. It's Thursday at about two o'clock. Hopefully you're up by now. If you are, don't bother coming in today. Sidney's here, and he's covering your shift. If you're not up, we'll, then, it's worse than I thought. Either way, when you do get up and get this message, take a look at your kitchen. Then call me. We need to talk. If I don't hear from you by tomorrow, I'll come by and check on you." _

Garret's message ended abruptly, leaving Jordan staring at the note taped to her cupboard doors.

'_This has become a problem. Call me'_

She recognized Garret's handwriting. When had he put that up there? Had he been the one to tape her cupboard's closed? Whose blood was in her kitchen? She searched her body for any pains or cuts. It wasn't hers, so whose? Why hadn't she cleaned it up? Her brain began to piece together the clues. Bug and Lily said she'd gone home sick. She'd never gone home sick from work. The clothes on her floor, the ones she taken off as she'd gone to the bathroom for her shower, she didn't remember putting them on. And Garret had said he was calling on Thursday at two o'clock. How was that possible? It was only Thursday morning…wasn't it? Quickly she went back through her kitchen, past the now quiet answering machine, and to the entry room table, where she frantically picked up the newspaper. Scanning the date, she felt her knees go weak. Friday, May 20, 2005. It was there in black and white. But what the hell had happened to Thursday?

Coffee forgotten, she reached for the phone. Garret had said to call. Maybe he could tell her. One hand went to her forehead, as if it could keep still all the thoughts rushing through her mind. Dialing Garret's cell phone number, she put the receiver to her ear, wondering, hoping he could tell her what the hell was going on. What had happened to Thursday, and why couldn't she remember?

**Part 2**

Jordan drove carefully through the streets of downtown Boston. She found herself slowing and stopping for yellow lights. Just yesterday, scratch that – just Wednesday, she would have raced through them so she wouldn't have to sit and wait. But today she was stopping at each one. And at each one, she found her conversation with Garret playing through her mind.

"_Hey Jordan."_

"_Garret," she said she said shakily. "How did you know it was me?"_

"_Caller ID, remember? Most cell phones nowadays come equipped with it. I assume you got my message?"_

"_Yeah. Both of them." She paused for a moment. "Garret, what happened? I can't remember the last twenty four hours. More than that, actually. Last thing I _really_ remember, it was Wednesday and I was just about to get off work."_

_She heard Garret sigh on the other end of the line. "I was afraid of that. Look, I'm stuck at work right now. Why don't you take the morning off? Clean your apartment, go pick up your car."_

"_My car's gone!"_

_He ignored her. "Pick up your car. If you don't know where it is, maybe Bug or Nigel can track it down. Maybe your memory will start to come back. Come in this afternoon. Sidney's still sick and we're bound to get our usual Friday afternoon rush. We'll find some time to talk. Look, I've got to go. Nigel just rolled in with another body. I'll see you this afternoon._

"_Yeah…okay."_

The light turned green, and she pressed down on the gas. After she had hung up with Garret, she found herself dialing another familiar set of numbers.

"_This is Hoyt. Leave your name, number, et cetera and I'll get back to you when I can."_

She hadn't bothered leaving a message. He must be in court or something. She'd just try later. She had been hoping he'd be willing and able to shed some light on what had happened. They had spent so much time together lately that it was a good bet he knew what had happened yesterday.

She'd had to look up Mike's Tow and Repair in the phone book to find where it was located. And she'd called and confirmed that her car was, in fact, there and ready to be picked up. That done, she had finally put the phone in its cradle and gone back to the kitchen. The whole scene scared her to the point where she had felt her hand's trembling as she swept up the glass. Garret hadn't told her what had happened, but the tone in his voice indicated that she needn't call the police. No foul play had been involved. But still, the fact that she couldn't remember was driving her mad. What if someone had drugged her drink, like Malden had the night he'd been murdered? Leaving the glass in the dustpan, she rose up and went over to her hall closet, where she kept a small forensics kit.

"And Woody said I was paranoid for keeping one of these in my house," she had said aloud, shaking her head as she returned to the living room. Expertly she dusted the glass for prints. Unfortunately, any prints that had been on the glass were smeared beyond recognition. She doubted even Nigel could reconstruct them. She threw away the glass and moved on to the blood. Using a swab, she collected several samples of the blood, both from the floor and the refrigerator. She got lucky when she found a nearly complete print at the end of the smear on her refrigerator. After carefully lifting the print, she collected all her evidence in a bag. By then it was almost ten. Grabbing her purse, she had called for a cab and gone to retrieve her car.

Now she was in her car – which seemed to have sustained no damage besides a couple popped tires, according to the man at the garage – and pulling into on of the parking spots reserved for building staff. Grabbing the bag, she locked her car and entered the elevator.

Hesitantly, almost gingerly, she stepped off the elevator – only to run in to a yawning Nigel, who was stepping into the elevator, coat slung over his arm.

"Hey Nigel, off to another exciting crime scene?" she asked, trying to sound normal.

He shook his head, rubbing his eyes. "Nope. Off to bed. Goodnight, Jordan." The door slid closed and he was gone.

Jordan blinked at his unusually short salutation. Usually Nigel was full of pep and had some interesting tidbit to tell her about. There was nothing she could do about it right now, though. She had her own problems. Turning back toward the office, she greeted the receptionist, who smiled back at her.

"Good to see you back, Jordan. Glad you weren't down too long with that bug. We're already short staffed now that Sidney's had to go home again."

Jordan nodded absently. "Yeah. Good to be back, Michelle. Is Garret in?"

She nodded. "Yeah, but he's been busy, so good luck getting him to hold still if you need to talk to him."

"Thanks." Jordan continued to her office, where put down her bags. She was looking around her office, hoping that _it_ would yield some clue to the events of the last 36 or so hours, when she heard a knock and a voice at her door.

"I thought I said not to come in until the afternoon."

She looked up to find Garret standing in her door way. Turning to face him, she shrugged. "Yeah, well, you know me. Always anxious to get back to work."

His face remained unreadable. "For once I'm glad. I just got a call from Walcott. She needs me over at the precinct for a few hours. Couple of big cases are going to court in the next few days. I need you in trace while I'm gone."

She frowned, recalling Friday's work schedule. "Isn't Nigel supposed to be in trace today?"

"Yeah, but he's been working double shifts for the last three days, covering for both you and Sidney. He was starting to fall asleep over his keyboard, so I sent him home. He'll be back in at about nine for the rest of his own shift."

"Oh. You said that we needed to talk…" She let her voice trail off.

"Yeah. Quit drinking."

"Ah, so it was you that taped up my alcohol cabinet. That's all you wanted to tell me? Could you at least tell me what happened yesterday?"

"Quit drinking. Maybe it'll come back to you. And don't bother trying to pry it out of anyone else in the office. As far as they know, you just went home sick yesterday with the twenty-four hour flu. I've got to go. If I'm not there in the next twenty minutes Renee will have my ass pinned to the wall."

Jordan stood in shock as Garret turned and left her office. Some friend! Now not remembering was starting to piss her off. And if Garret was right, no one else knew what the hell was going on. She looked over at the bag she had placed on her desk. Looked like the evidence she had collected was going to be more important than she thought. It would likely be the only way she'd get any kind of answers.

"Jordan!"

Bugs' voice interrupted her reverie. "Bug. Yeah?"

"Didn't you hear me calling you? Come on, get your scrubs on, I need your help. We've got a six car pile up on the express. Four DOAs and they're all on their way here."

Jordan closed her eyes. Her evidence would have to wait. "Yeah, I'm coming."

Four hours later, Jordan, Bug and the others had finished processing and evaluating the four bodies from the accident. From what they could tell, it seemed that the instigating driver – who now resided in drawer 13 in the freezer – had been intoxicated, a blood alcohol content of 0.29. Witnesses said he had overcorrected after changing lanes and caused the accident. Simple, no foul play, case closed. Just as stupid mistake by a stupid person who had decided to drive after drinking. She sat down at her desk, fully intending to do the paperwork on the bodies she'd just processed. Within thirty seconds, though, the pen she was using ran out of ink. No mater, she had more in her desk drawer. But which one? She never remembered. She pulled open the bottom drawer, looking for the box of pens and felt herself pause.

Lying on the bottom of her desk drawer was a 20 oz., half empty bottle of vodka. Pulling it out of the drawer, Jordan sat back in her chair and stared at the bottle. She'd brought it to work a week ago, when she had decided that Irish coffee was the best way to go in the morning. How had so much disappeared?

Suddenly her mind flashed back. A masculine hand picking up a bottle from her coffee table…the office toilet from very close up… telling someone about her nightmares…

Jordan almost dropped the bottle. What the hell had happened to her? Jesus, she needed a drink. Unscrewing the cap, she brought the bottle to her lips. But the smell roiled her stomach. She barely managed to keep her stomach in check and quickly screwed the cap back on the bottle. Garret knew what happened. Yet he wasn't telling her. All he had said was to quit drinking. Quit drinking. Just from that, it was pretty much a no-brainer that she had been drunk when whatever it was that happened had happened. But why the hell wouldn't he tell her!

Jordan slammed the bottle back into the drawer. Reaching to the corner of her desk, she picked up the bag that contained the evidence she had collected that morning. They were done processing the bodies; there was no one in trace; and Garret still wasn't back. Feeling a sense of urgency, she went into trace and immediately went to work. She scanned the print into the computer and set it to search through AFIS, doing her best to limit the search to the Boston area. While she waited for that, she took the blood samples and prepared them. She added the appropriate chemicals and set it in the spectrometer and waited for the profile to come up. She was thankful that Boston had one of the most advanced DNA identification systems. Just a few years ago, she'd have to wait hours for a profile. Now she only had to wait 10 minutes. Didn't matter, she still hated waiting.

Finally, one of the two machines beeped. The computer had come up with a match for her print… and her brain couldn't quite grasp what she was seeing. According to the system, the print was a 98.9 match for the left thumb of one Detective Woodrow Wilson Hoyt of the Boston Police Department. Jordan sat back in the chair. She wasn't surprised to find his print in her apartment; he often came over, usually once or twice a week, though he rarely stayed long. But it had been in the blood. Which meant that he had been there, and he knew what had happened; Garret wasn't the only one. The other machine beeped, and when she looked over, she got another surprise. Not only had the system created a viable genetic profile, it had matched it to a member of the Boston Police, which had decreed two years ago that all it's officers put their DNA on file as well as fingerprints. The blood in her apartment also belonged to Detective Woodrow Wilson Hoyt.

She felt a brief flash of panic as she realized what the data meant. Woody had been bleeding in her apartment. But why? Dear God, it couldn't have been her… she would never hurt him. He was one of her closest friends. Actually, her best friend, maybe more. She needed to talk to him.

Quickly she cleaned the equipment and erased any traces of her use. Once back in her office, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed his number.

"_This is Hoyt. Leave your name, number, et cetera and I'll get back to you when I can."_

She hung up. Why wasn't he answering his phone? She dialed his other number, his home number.

"_Beep We're sorry. The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this message in error, please hang up and try your call again."_

Jordan checked the screen of her cell phone. The number was right. Something must be wrong with his phone. She called his cell phone again, this time leaving a message.

"Woody, it's Jordan. Look, uh. I really don't know what to say except I'm sorry. Worst part is I don't know what I'm apologizing for. I can't remember most of the last couple days and…and I need some help. Seems like only you and Garret know what's going on, and he's not talking. So, could you call me? Please?"

She snapped the phone shut and stared into space. Moments later, she realized that she wasn't doing anything except letting thoughts buzz around her head without giving her any answers. She forced herself to snap out of it. Hell, she was a trained medical examiner and forensic technician, _and_ the daughter of a detective; she'd solved cases all her life. She should be able to figure out what the hell happened. First she had to start with what she knew, what she remembered from both before and after the blank spot in her memory.

But before she had a chance to get started, Bug poked his head in her office once again. "Jordan, there you are! Come on, I'm going to need your help. We've got more bodies rolling in. There's been an explosion at a residence in Southie. It looks like the weekend is starting early." He slapped his hand against the door frame and left as she heard the clatter of a loaded gurney entering trace.

Sighing, she followed.

AN: Wow, longest chapter yet! Thanks for all the reviews! As I've said before, it's like chocolate without the calories!


	6. Garret Again

Sorry about the delay – I wanted to add some stuff to this chapter before I posted it…

Thank you all for the reviews!

**Chapter 5: Garret**

Garret was bone tired. He'd gone over to police headquarters not only to be briefed on the two cases that were coming to trial in the next few days, but also to brief the other detectives on the cases that Woody would be handing over while he was undercover. It had taken hours. It turns out that Woody had been juggling more than a dozen cases, and the other detectives weren't nearly as intuitive as Woody. Working so closely with the morgue for so many years meant that Woody had both picked up morgue lingo and could easily interpret the pathology and evidence reports… as opposed to these detectives, who seemed to need their hands held the entire way.

To make the day more exciting, on his way out of headquarters, he had been pulled aside by Renee Walcott, who was on her way in. She dragged him into one of the private conference room she had access to and asked him to sit. She didn't beat around the bush.

"I know Hoyt told you that he was going undercover. What I'm curious about is why."

Garret shrugged. "You work with him more than I do. What makes you think I'd know?"

Renee, who hadn't sat down, leaned against the table. "What's going on, Garret?"

Inside, Garret sighed. Why did he always feel the need to protect his people? Why couldn't he, one of these days, be one of those mean bastards who cared only about himself? Oh well. "Like I already said, what makes you think there's anything going on?"

"I didn't get to be a DA for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts by being unobservant, Garret. We've been asking Hoyt to go undercover for three weeks. Suddenly he shows up the other morning with a nasty gash on his head and total willingness to go on an undercover assignment that will take him away from everything he knows for at least a month. I'll say it one more time. What's going on?"

Weariness washed over him. "This is all off the record?" He knew that she was a woman of her word. If she said it was off the record, she'd keep her promise.

"If I say no?" she asked.

"What was your question again?"

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. It's off the record."

"Woody and Jordan had fight a couple days ago."

"Ah. But what else is new… they fight all the time, on the scene, in the courtroom."

"This one was a little different."

"About her drinking?" She saw Garret's eyebrows hit his non-existent hairline. "Oh, come on. I told you I'm observant. Plus I've got an ex who was an alcoholic. I've noticed her behavior. Someone's got to talk to her, and soon, or she could get out of control."

He sat back in his chair. "I think Hoyt's been trying to for the last few weeks. The rest of us kind of slacked off. I guess we all thought he could handle her."

"No one person can handle Jordan Cavanaugh, Garret, you especially should know that."

"Yeah, I know. Things kind of hit the fan the other night. She got drunk and threw her glass at him – hence the nine new stitches in his face, which I put in early yesterday morning. He had come to the morgue to ask if I could help her. Nigel and I talked with him for a while, and he thinks all he's been doing is enabling her. So he's decided to take a step back. That's why he's suddenly so willing to go undercover."

"And what does Jordan think about this?"

"She doesn't know. And I'm not planning on telling her, and I'd prefer it if you didn't either. Best I can tell, she doesn't remember anything about that night or yesterday, which I think she spent sleeping it all off. If we do it right, I'm hoping this'll be what it takes to shake her out of her habit."

Renee didn't say anything for a while. Finally, "Good luck then. I know I said I'd keep this off the record – and I will," she said, before Garret could interrupt. "But if Jordan's problem gets worse, and starts affecting her work, I'm going to have to have her suspended. I can't afford for her problems to affect our cases."

He gave a her a determined look. "_If_ it gets to that point, I'll suspend her myself." He stood. "Can I go now? I've been gone more than half the day, and we're already short staffed."

She stepped away from the door and he left her with a brief nod. "I'll see you around."

He had gotten about ten feet before he abruptly turned back around. "Renee," he called out and she turned around. "One more thing."

* * *

It hadn't taken him long to get from his visit to headquarters and his talk with Walcott back to the morgue. But between briefing the detectives and his discussion in with DA Walcott, it was needless to say that Garret was exhausted. 

Which meant that he wasn't in the mood nor did he have the energy to face Jordan, who came barreling up to him almost has soon as he exited the elevator.

"Garret, I need to talk you. I took samples from my kitchen, and –"

"Jordan," Garret interrupted with a sigh. "Could I at least get into my office before you start hounding me?"

Jordan hands, which had been gesturing in his general direction, dropped. "Yeah. Yeah, of course."

She let him get to his office. She even waited until he had taken off his coat and sat down. Then, apparently unable to restrain herself a moment longer, bombarded him again. "Garret, what the hell happened yesterday? When I called you this morning, the last thing I could remember was getting ready to get off work. Everything was fine, and my car had all four tires in place, and it was Wednesday. This morning I wake up and find blood and broken glass in my kitchen, two of my tires have been popped, and I'm missing a whole day! To make matters worse, everyone around here thinks there's nothing out of the ordinary, that I just had the flu! Garret, I haven't been sick enough to stay home for more than two years. Something's going on, and you know about it. Damn it! Just tell me what the hell happened!"

Garret let out a breath and rubbed his eyes with one hand. "Jordan-"

"So help me, Garret, if you kick me out, I'll be right back in here ten seconds later." She came closer, leaning against his desk. "Garret, I need my friend right now, not my boss. Please, just tell me what happened. I'm starting to get freaked out here."

"Good. That's probably what you need. Close the door, Jordan, then have a seat."

Jordan remained still for a bit longer, from both his bluntness and because she had expected more resistance, but then hastily complied.

Garret leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the corner of the desk. He had watched her over the past few months, and in all honesty, he was tired of waiting for her to figure it out for herself. "First of all, your tires were popped at a crime scene on Wednesday."

"But I was in trace all day on Wednesday."

Garret held up a hand. "I know. But about ten minutes before your shift ended, there was a call for a body in an ally downtown. Bug had already gone out on a call to the railroad tracks, and the police wanted to get this body back to the morgue as soon as possible, so I volunteered you. Apparently, you drove in from the back, where a carton of nails landed. Don't ask me why they were there, I don't know. Anyway, your tires got popped, and your spare hadn't been repaired since your last flat, so your car was towed."

Jordan raised an eyebrow. "That explains my car. But what about my apartment?"

His fingers tapped out a staccato rhythm against the top of his desk. "Let me take a wild guess here, Jordan. You sampled the blood that was in your kitchen. You dusted for prints. You many have even run a tox screen on yourself to see if there were traces of any drugs while I was gone.

Jordan's momentary silence told him that she had. "Actually, I did to all those things. The tox screen came back negative. I even found a print in the blood smear on the refrigerator. Both it and the blood belonged to-"

"Woody," they both said at the same time.

Jordan briefly closed her eyes. "Garret, please. Tell me what happened."

Her demeanor almost unnerved him. She was preternaturally quiet, waiting for him to speak. "Jordan, you remember Wednesday morning, when Woody came by your office?"

She frowned. "Yeah…vaguely. He… he said I drink too much." Her voice became soft.

"And he's right. That night, after you got home, you must have had a hell of a lot to drink. When I brought you home on Thursday after you tried to come into work – completely drunk, I might add – I found enough empty bottles to get a half dozen people good and buzzed. And that was just the start of it." Garret then proceeded to tell her what Woody had told them about the other night. He recounted how she had shouted at Woody, insulted him, and finally been angry enough to throw a glass at him. Fortunately, he told her, her aim wasn't good enough to hit her target. He told her how Woody had come to him seeking help, not for the deep laceration on his face, but help for her, because there was nothing he could do.

Jordan got up and started pacing the room. "Jesus, no wonder Woody's not answering my calls."

Garret felt like squirming. He knew he would catch hell from Jordan later for not volunteering the truth about Woody's location, but he had made a promise. And if Woody had been right about him being an enabler, it would be best if they were separated for a few weeks. "That might have something to do with it. He's also gone out of town for a while. That's why it took me so long at the station. I had to brief the others on his cases."

Jordan stopped pacing. "Out of town? Where?"

He shrugged, and let the recently agreed upon cover story come easily. "Something about a family emergency. His aunt or something passed away in Wisconsin. He's gone back to help settle her affairs."

"I thought he didn't have any family left besides Cal."

Garret hefted himself out of the chair and started to move towards the door. "I think that's what we all thought. But how much do we really know about him? Besides the fact that he's from Wisconsin and about as chipper and annoying as a squirrel with a nut."

One corner of Jordan's mouth quirked in a semblance of a small smile.

Garret put a hand on one shoulder and led her out the door and back into the normalcy of the hallway. "Come on Jordan. Now that you know what happened, maybe things will start to come back. And hopefully you'll learn from all this. Either way, there's nothing we can do now but give it time."


	7. Nigel Again

**Chapter 6: Nigel**

And time passed. A week and a half went by, and Jordan stayed away from alcohol the entire time. She'd spent much of her time sleeping on the couch in her office rather than going home. Nigel knew because he worked most of the afternoon and night shifts (while Jordan worked the day shifts), and he could see her asleep on the couch. He wondered if she didn't go home because she thought she would be tempted, or because she wasn't ready to remember. She hadn't said anything, and he hadn't asked.

One evening, because of someone's vacation, Jordan had ended up working the night shift with him. A couple of bodies had come over from the hospital, deceased due to unknown causes, and Jordan had spent most of the first half of the shift doing the trace and then the autopsies on the bodies. Nigel had purposely spent most of his time in the lab, analyzing the data and samples he'd been sent on one of the police department's cases.

It was about 1:30 in the morning when he heard a small tap followed by the swooshing sound of the door opening. He didn't have to look over his shoulder to know who had entered.

"What can I help you with, Jordan?" he asked, still clicking away at his keyboard, occasionally moving and clicking the mouse.

"You can start by looking at me."

Nigel's brow furrowed, but he didn't turn around, keeping his attention on the monitor. "I don't get your meaning," he said over his shoulder.

A small hand reached over his right shoulder and pressed a button on his monitor. Instantly the screen went dark. Nigel protested. "Hey! What'd you do that for?"

Jordan grabbed the back of his barstool on wheels chair and swung him around to face her. He accepted it, but still didn't look her in the eyes. "Relax, Nige. You know as well as I do that all I did was turn off the monitor. Your work is quite safe from all of the little computer goblins."

"Jordan, what's this all about?"

"I want to know why you've avoided me for the past couple weeks."

"What are you talking about, love. I've done no such thing."

Jordan folded her arms and shifted her weight to one foot. "Bullshit. You've switched to the night shift. And even though I'm here in my office just about every night, you never stop in to say hi. You've stopped telling me about interesting and weird things you see and think. Every time I see you, you're like a zombie, and if you _do _see me, you go in the other direction."

He finally looked her in the eyes. "I'm sorry, Jor. It's… just been busy."

"Nigel, I'm the one who should be sorry."

Nigel felt himself relax all the sudden. His body, if not his subconscious seemed to realize that this was what he had been waiting for. "What are you sorry for," he asked hesitantly.

Jordan drew her hands back, looping her thumbs in her waistband as she shifted her weight around. "Garret told me what happened that night. How I got drunk and hurt Woody. He told me how Woody came here for help. It doesn't take a genius to check the work schedules and find out that you were the only other person here that night, so you probably know the whole story. I'm sorry I put you in that position."

Nigel felt torn. A part of him still wanted to protect Jordan, as he always had. The other part of him just wanted to lash into her for her actions, to vent all his frustration and anger. For thirty seconds, that first part won. "It wasn't _exactly_ your fault, Jordan."

But only for thirty seconds.

"No, I take that back," Nigel said sternly, straightening up to his full height. "It was your fault. It's your fault you decided to drink yourself into a stupor these past couple months. It's your fault you've been biting our heads of the whole time. It's your fault I spent an entire week doing double shifts because Sidney was sick and you were drunk off your ass, so I had to cover for both of you! And it's your fault that I was the only one who could do that because no one else knew what was going on, and for some stupid reason I felt like protecting you. But I'll tell you what, Jordan. It hurt. It hurt that you'd be so damnably selfish that you'd hurt your closest friends like that. And I didn't even get the worst of it! Woodrow got his head bit off practically every day! Did you even remember what you did to him? Here, I'll show you," he said as she shook her head. He turned back to his computer and switched on the monitor. A few clicks of the mouse later, a vibrant color photo of Woody, sleeping on Garret's couch, stitches exposed, appeared on the screen. "I took this while I was changing the bandage and waking him up to make sure the bloke didn't have a concussion. Did you know that it took Garret nine stitches to close the wound? Nine." He held the same number fingers up in front of her face as he said it. "Stupid bloke wouldn't even let us take him to a hospital, where a real doctor – you know, the kind that work on living people – could take a look at him."

By now, Nigel was pacing short strides in front of Jordan, pausing occasionally to look at her reaction. "Took me three days to figure out why. If he had gone to a hospital, an injury like his would have required a police report. And with his boy scout belief in the system, he couldn't have lied to them, so news of what happened would have made it's way back to the big bosses – you know, the ones that sign your paycheck – and you would have been forced to take leave from a job that he knows you love. Stupid man would actually bleed to death than do something that would hurt you."

"He won't answer my calls, Nigel."

"What?" Jordan's first words since he began effectively stopped him in his tracks, essentially finishing his tirade, though he was just about done with it anyway.

She inhaled a shaky breath, finally turning away from where she had been staring at the picture on the computer, but stood her ground. "He won't answer any of my calls. I've left a dozen messages on his cell, but it was disconnected a couple days ago, and he hasn't returned any of them."

Nigel already felt his temporary, and uncharacteristic, rage ebbing. "What about his home phone?"

"Disconnected. Has been since that day, when he left, I guess for Wisconsin. Look, Nigel. I know I've been a really crappy friend lately, but I need your help. I still can't remember what happened that day. I get a couple flashes here and there… someone touching a bottle of vodka on my coffee table, the office toilet from _very_ close up – not a good view, mind you. I just can't remember anything, Nigel, and it's kind of… Well, I'll admit it's pretty much scaring the crap out of me right now." She shrugged, trying to look nonchalant, but now that he looked, Nigel could see the fear and frustration in her eyes. "I went to an AA meeting the other day, and they suggested having a friend, someone you could confide in. I can't reach Woody. Garret has too much on his plate right now, trying to handle Wolcott, and I don't want to burden anyone else with this. So please, I need your help."

Nigel studied Jordan for a while. He knew how hard it was for her to ask for help. And he could see the tears forming in her eyes, one of the few times he had ever seen such a sight. "You know I'll help you, love," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "But you've got to let me."

Jordan leaned into his friendly embrace, and he automatically felt himself reciprocating. Giving her a quick squeeze, he pulled back and looked down at her. "You're lucky I like you so much," he teased. "Come on. Let's get back to work. When we get off, I'll take you for a cup of coffee and we can talk."

* * *

More time passed. Jordan started taking things one day at a time. Then days turned into weeks, turned into months. She and Nigel spend a lot of time together, just talking. And while they did talk a lot about Jordan's problems, they spend just as much time talking about mundane things, about… life. That isn't to say she neglected her other friends. She went shopping with Lily. She went to the museum of natural science with Bug and Nigel. She went to an occasional movie. If anyone noticed that she avoided the bars and dance clubs, no one said anything. 

After a while, Jordan and Nigel were a little stunned to find that it had been two months since that night; Jordan still had no memory of what had happened. Her only knowledge came from the second-hand information Garret and Nigel had. One afternoon, as they shared lunch before they started their evening shift together, Jordan confided in him that knowing that she might never remember was what scared her most of all. That she could do something so horrible and deliberate to someone she cared about and not have any recollection of it. And in those moments where her head ached and the nightmares began to creep up on her, when she was alone in her apartment, when she was temped to jog over to the corner store, all she had to do was look at the picture on her nightstand.

The picture was a copy of the one she had given Devan's mother. The gang from the morgue had been celebrating something, and a picture had been taken since it was one of the few times they were all in the same place together. The photo served to remind her of all that she was hurting if she caved in to her need for alcohol. Invariably, though, she would find her gaze drawn to Woody's bright smiling face. He was standing next to her, and she could remember that his hand had been on the small of her back. Even in those days, when she had doubted his friendship because of how close he was to Devan, he had continued to support her and be her friend. In one of their conversations, she told Nigel how she often found herself wishing that she had more pictures of him, or of the two of them together. When ever they had gone out as a group or just by themselves, Woody was usually the one behind the camera, snapping random shots with his digital camera. Briefly, she would wonder if he stored them all somewhere.

For the first couple weeks after Woody left, Jordan hadn't worried too much about him. She had done something terrible to him, and he deserved his space. But when he still didn't call her after three weeks, and no one at the precinct seemed to know anything, she did start to worry. Bug and Lily had noticed; though Woody would occasionally go off and 'sulk' (as Lily said), it was unusual for him to stay away for so long, to not forgive and forget.

But Jordan suspected he never forgot anything. And she was starting to think that he really wouldn't forget what had happened that night in her apartment. But there was nothing she could do. She had no way of communicating with him. And no matter how many hints she dropped, Garret, Nigel and even Woody's police captain refused to take the bait. The only information she got was that he was taking care of his late aunt's affairs in Wisconsin, and that things were taking longer than expected.

The fact that the ball was, essentially, in Woody's court didn't mean that Jordan stopped thinking or worrying about him. Even Nigel could see that, hear that in her voice when she talked about him. And two and a half months after Jordan's turning point, he could see that she was tired of waiting, and would jump at any chance to talk to Woodrow Hoyt again.


	8. Jordan Again

Good news: here's the next chapter! Yea! Bad news: it's the last of my pre-written chapters, so now I'm writing as I post, and so it'll take a little longer. There's only a couple more chapters to go. Thanks to all who read and review!

**Chapter 7: Jordan**

For once, Jordan, Nigel and Garret had all worked the same shift, the day shift. A slow day meant that they were able to go out for lunch together. Not that they purposely excluded their other friends at the morgue, but someone did have to stay on duty. And sometimes it was nice to be among their small circle of three. The only ones who knew Jordan's past problems and current trials. They could speak freely.

Today they were eating at Laszlo's, a fast-serve diner that worked well for both downtown workers who only had 30 minutes for lunch and tourists who had time to kick back for a leisurely meal. Tables for the latter ran around the side and to the back of the building, while a counter, a few booths and a handful of outdoor tables were usually occupied by the former. Being that it was now late September, and a cold front was sweeping across the city, they had decided to sit at one of the booths in front. There, the kitchen and door traffic meant that the temperature would drastically rise and fall frequently. The sound of hurried patrons and waitresses would occasionally drown out the sound from the two televisions, which usually alternated between news and sports, that were fixed to the ceiling above the counter.

There was nothing special about today, at least nothing other than the blue plate variety here at the diner. For once, the morgue was rather quiet. Jordan had actually managed to get most of her lingering paperwork done. Compared to three months ago, she'd changed a lot of things about herself, most notably how she interacted with other people. For the first few weeks after she joined Alcoholics Anonymous, Jordan analyzed every move she made, every interaction. It didn't take long to notice that others were noticing a change in her behavior. Eventually she had eased up, though she was still careful to take herself away from a situation whenever she felt herself getting hot headed. Yes, Jordan had been shown a mirror. Not liking what she saw, she had made a resolution to better herself. But she never could get in the habit of finishing all her paperwork. So today, like most days now, she had only gotten through about 75 to 80 percent of it.

Lunch had started with Nigel telling them about a new model of portable spectrometer – which was now smaller about the size of a couple of PDAs. When their meal was delivered, he was still talking about it.

"I can't wait to get my hands on one of those little beauties. I've heard tell that they need only a half dozen molecules of any given substance to identify it. And! And it can identify over a million and a half different substances. And if for any reason it can't identify something, it will store the data and you can link it to a larger database!"

"All of which won't do us a bit of good," Garrett pointed out.

"What are you talking about?" Nigel queried around a mouthful of tuna sandwich.

"I read the same article, Nigel. The whole thing is still in the experimental stage. They're still in the process of testing it in the field."

Nigel swallowed. "What are you talking about?" he repeated, his British accent more pronounced by his indignation.

Garret rolled his eyes, and Jordan popped a French fry in her mouth in an attempt to stifle her laughter. Finally, she couldn't hold it in any longer. Barely containing her mirth, she asked, "Nigel, did you read the whole article?"

"What are you talking about? Of course I read the bloody article!"

"But the whole thing… even those pesky little side bars and pop up detail sections…"

Nigel was silent for a moment. A sheepish expression crossed his face. "Fine. I'll admit… I don't quite read every word. There, you satisfied!" He grumbled, sticking his tongue out at her before taking another bite of his sandwich.

Jordan laughed harder. "Every time, Nigel! Every time! Whatever kick you're on, there's always something that you forgot. Isn't that right, Garret? …Garret?"

Jordan looked up at Garret, whose mind clearly wasn't on the inane conversation anymore. His eyes were fixed on one of the television sets. Both she and Nigel, who by now had noticed Garret's silence, followed his gaze.

A momentary lull in customers allowed all of them to hear what the newscaster was saying as shaky news footage from a busy crime scene popped up on the screen, the word LIVE in big letters in one corner.

"_WBCA has just learned that a little over a half hour ago, a multi-jurisdictional task force made a major bust here at one of Boston's less frequented docking ports. While there have been no official statements made by any law enforcement agencies, witnesses and WBCA cameras have seen officials from the FBI, Boston PD, the _New York_ Police Department and even one person wearing a Department of Homeland Security Jacket. We also have footage of several ambulances on scene, one of them speeding off, presumably to a local hospital. Our reporters have been told that a press conference will be held approximately 45 minutes from now. WBCA will bring you more on this story at that time."_

Nigel whipped his head back around. "Bloody hell. I saw Jacobs in that mess."

Garret said nothing. He pulled out his wallet and tossed a couple bills on the table. Almost simultaneously, his pager went off. Three seconds later, Nigel's did as well. Nigel checked his, and then said. "Shit. It _was_ Jacobs."

Jordan looked from one man to the other. "Okay," she said slowly. "Does either one of you want to tell me what's going on?"

Garret looked her straight in the eye. "Not here. I'll tell you when we get in the car."

Nigel immediately looked over at Garret, and Jordan caught the "Are you sure?" look that he transmitted to him. She also caught Garret's response, a silent look that said "I know what I'm doing, just do what I say."

She didn't say anything, though, as she followed the two men to Nigel's SUV.

**Part 2:**

Almost as soon as Nigel pulled out of the parking garage, Jordan, from her vantage point in the back seat, saw him quickly glance over at Garret and ask, "Do you think he's going to be there?"

Garret sighed and, still looking straight ahead, said in a deadpan voice, "I don't know, Nigel. He could still be in New York. Hell, he could be in Timbuktu for all we know."

Jordan leaned forward. "Who? Are you guys gonna start talking here, or am I going to have to guess? Who do you think is going to be there?"

There was a moments silence before Garret said simply, "Woody."

She blinked and then raised an eyebrow. Her mind raced with a million questions, none of them coalescing. Finally, she just said. "I think I need you guys to start at the beginning."

Garret straightened his coat, even though there had been no wind or anything to dislodge it. "You remember those floaters we were pulling out of the Atlantic and the Charles a few months ago?"

"No."

"No? Oh, sorry. That was about the time you were… well, erhm…"

"Drinking like the proverbial fish," Nigel finished for him.

Garret glared, though Nigel missed it since he was looking left for oncoming traffic. "Thanks Nigel."

"You're welcome."

Garret rolled his eyes. "Anyway, about three months ago, the Boston PD kept fishing these bodies out of the water. Five bodies in the course of two months. That's a little harsh, even for Boston. Nigel and I – strangely enough – ended up doing the trace and autopsies on all five. Apparently, between what we gave them and what they picked up from witnesses and such, the cops came up with a few suspects, all of which were linked to the Torretti mob.

"The Italian guys? I thought they were strictly New York?"

Garret shrugged as they pulled into the parking garage. "Apparently, they decided to move in on Boston. Boston PD wanted to put someone undercover, but most of their leads were local bad boys; if anybody from the vice squad went in, they'd be recognized in less than two seconds, and all we'd get out of it would be more bodies.

By now, Jordan had connected the dots. "So… so Woody went in undercover? That's where he's been these last three months?"

Garret didn't answer. The three of them were walking now walking to the elevator; obviously, Garret didn't want to discuss the subject in public. She waited for his answer as they went up, and then walked through the morgue to his office. Once the door had been closed and Nigel had closed the blinds, he answered her question."

"Yeah. He's been undercover for the last three months. As far as I know, he doesn't even have an aunt in Wisconsin."

She tried to figure it out. "But why Woody? He's had enough high profile cases that you'd think he'd be recognized?"

Nigel had gone around the couch, now standing beside Garret. "Apparently not, love. Believe it or not, he's still the newest guy in the homicide department."

"Wait, Capra and Santana are both newer than he is."

"I said guy, dear. Not person. There's no way the mob would accept a female into their confidence. There was also the fact that since Woody transferred straight to homicide from Wisconsin, he was never a beat cop or on the vice squad here."

She picked up his meaning. "So, none of the mob's local stooges would recognize him. He never would have arrested them for the usual things those guys get arrested for: loitering, petty theft, assault."

"Exactly. And from what I've been told, he looks completely different once he's out of those suits he always wears. A little grunge clothing, a goatee, a shaved head and Woodrow's like a whole new person."

"But how come no one told me? It's been three months?" Her voice was starting to take on the familiar firm tone. "Don't you think I'd be a little bit worried that he hadn't come back from Wisconsin?"

Nigel shook a finger in the air. "I had noticed that, yeah."

Jordan glared at him. "How come you two know about all this, but no one else does? Bug would never be able to keep something like that from me. Hell, I'm surprised you've managed to, Nigel. And what all that in the diner about?" Jordan didn't like being in the dark about things. So now, she was demanding answers.

Nigel shuffled his feet. "Yeah, sorry about the whole not telling you thing. But you'd be amazed at what threats from Ms. Walcott can do for one's secret keeping ability."

"Walcott's in on this?"

They both nodded. Garret explained, "Renee, Captain Fischer and Lt. Jacobs – the officer in charge of the Boston end of things – figured out pretty quick that it would be best if they kept Nigel and me in the loop about this, on the condition that we keep it just between us." He shrugged. "Apparently they've figured out that if they don't talk to us, we'll keep on digging and screw up their work. Plus, nobody wanted Woody's position compromised. So they had the two of us working the some of the evidence from the case, under strict orders that it be kept classified."

Jordan closed her eyes for a moment and then sat down on the couch. "So Woody's been in Boston this whole time?"

Garret shook his head. "No. From what I've picked up, he's been back and forth between here and New York, and he's only checked in a handful of times. Renee did tell us that they were hoping to make the arrests in a couple weeks, after some big meeting between the mob heads. But I don't think it wasn't supposed to be this soon."

"And you guys were paged because…?"

Nigel glanced over at Garret before addressing her. "There's bound to be mounds of evidence to process; Boston's CSU's always been understaffed. That's why they've been using the two of us to process evidence. And now, now that the media's got hold of the story, they'll be using everyone they can to get a fast answer. And… you saw the newscast. There was at least one tarp out… there were casualties."

Jordan didn't say anything. She just stared at the two men as everything sank in and as comprehension dawned and fear ascended.

And at that exact moment, her cell phone, clipped to her belt like usual, rang.


	9. Woody Again

So, so, sooooo sorry to have left you guys hanging like that! Other things just got hooked into my brain and kind of let my muse for this story out of it's cage. But I'm back now! And hopefully, since there's only one or two more chapters left, I'll have this story finished for you guys shortly after the new year.

But for now, I hope you like this chapter – and please review!

**Chapter 8: Woody**

Woody stepped out from the cab and into the biting September wind. The coat he had been wearing earlier that day was ruined, and the Boston PD windbreaker he now wore did nothing to keep the cold air from his body. Still having a buzz cut didn't help either.

He paid the driver, and as the cab drove away to its next job, Woody looked up at the building he was about to enter. He took note of the time on the clock above the entrance: 5:40. Much longer than the two hours he had told Jordan earlier.

* * *

"_Hello?" _

_The voice on the other end of the phone was classically soft but still resolute. How very Jordan-esque, he thought. He cleared his throat before responding. "Jordan."_

_She instantly recognized his voice, though it was gruffer and more solemn than she remembered. "Woody! Where are you? Are you okay?"_

_Back in the run down hotel room, Woody had blinked, confused for a moment before he realized that Nigel and Garret must have clued her in. Captain Fischer had told him at some point in the past few weeks that those two were involved in the evidence processing. He remembered being relieved when he heard that. They were two of the best in the business, and if anyone could ferret information out of the lousy physical evidence he was able to get back, it would be them. "I'm fine, Jordan," he said, nodding to the uniformed officer who was picking up his bag – the lone items he'd traveled with these past months. He held the phone between his left shoulder and his ear so he could rub the fingers of his left hand across his forehead. "Listen, is there someplace we can talk?"_

"_What's wrong?"_

"_Nothing… well, nothing a double caramel latte and a week's worth of sleep can't help," he tried joking._

_She didn't take the bait, but laughed a little at his lame joke. "I'll bring one with me. Where are you?"_

_He sighed. "Nowhere you should be. Look, I've got to take care of a few things first, so… where are you?"_

"_At the office."_

_Woody practically fought the urge whack himself in the forehead. Duh, she was at the office. Where else would a normal person be in the middle of the day on a Tuesday. "Right… well, can I just meet you in your office in a couple hours?"_

"_Sure, no problem. Shall I bring the double caramel lattes?"_

_He smiled. "No, that's okay. But Jordan... how… how're _you_ doing?"_

_The tone in her voice told him she knew exactly what he was talking about. "I'm good, Wood. I got help, thanks to you. It's been hard sometimes, but I'm working on it."_

_He smiled. "That's good, Jordan. I'll see you in a couple hours." He hung up before she could ask anything else._

_

* * *

_

He pulled the windbreaker tighter around him as best he could and stepped into the building. Going through the lobby and up the elevator felt… off-kilter. The building seemed strange, almost new. Not surprising since he used to come nearly every day, but now hadn't been here in three months. And of the handful of people he encountered, no one called out to him. It seemed no one recognized him. The fact that he was wearing a generic BPD jacket instead of a suit coat, wrap-around ray bans and had a short haircut probably had something to do with it.

Stepping off the elevator into the more familiar morgue, Woody was still waiting for someone to recognize him. It didn't take long. A well-known redhead slammed out of a nearby room, the door swinging shut behind her. "Bonehead," he heard her murmur as she looked down to write on the clipboard her arms.

He smiled, taking off the sunglasses and hanging them on the collar of his shirt. "Those boneheads always have been trouble, haven't they, Lily?"

She looked up, her expression blank for a moment before a smile lit her face. "Woody!" She ran up to give him a hug, but stopped short. "Oh my gosh! Woody, are you okay?"

He gave her a soft smile. "Good enough for a hug. Come here." He reached out his left hand and she returned his hug gently.

"How have you been? Where have you been? How come you never called?"

"Easy there, Lil. There'll be time for all that later. Is Jordan still around?"

"Yeah, she's in her office. She's been pacing a hole in the floor for the last three and a half hours and now I know why. Are you sure there's nothing I can get for you? Coffee? An ice pack? Aspirin?"

"I'll be fine. I'll catch up with you later." He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder before moving on to Jordan's office. As he approached, he could see her figure through the windows, still lithe and strong, walking circles around her desk.

He reached her door, surprised that she still hadn't noticed him from the corner of her eye, and raised a hand to knock, but stopped when he caught sight of his own reflection in the glass.

He was amazed at how different he looked; definitely not the same man who had walked out of this building three months ago. The short haircut set off his angular features – definitely not to his liking. It showed off the nose that had been broken the first week he'd been undercover, as well as his irregularly shaped head and prominent cheekbones. The borrowed cloths he wore showcased a body that was no longer lean and trim but stalwart and defined. The men with whom he had lived and worked with for the past three months had been very fond of weightlifting. Woody had joined in, making sure to keep his cover. Combined with restless nights, the result was a body with a different build. But what he knew would most concern Jordan, as a doctor, at least, were the injuries he had sustained in the… well, the battle – there was no other word for it – this morning at the warehouse on the dock. One eye was blackened, and there was a bruise forming along his jaw. Tape beneath his shirt shored up at least one broken rib. He was favoring his right leg, where a bullet had grazed his calf, and his right arm was in a sling to protect his shoulder, where another bullet had gone clean through.

_Jesus_, he thought briefly. M_aybe_ _I should have called this off, waited until I didn't look like the wrong end of a hit-and-run_. But it was too late to turn back now. Lily, at least, already knew he was here. He knocked on the window gently with two knuckles, garnering her attention.

Jordan whirled around at the sound. He noticed that, like Lily, she did a double take at his appearance. But Jordan recovered faster, almost lunging toward the door as he gently pushed it open. "Hey Jordan."

He could see from her expression that she wanted to come closer, but she stopped a good three feet from him. "Are you okay?" she asked lightly as he hovered just inside the doorway.

"Eventually," Woody said. Then, not giving her a chance to back away or object, he reached out with this good arm and drew her to him for a hug. She resisted at first, but then allowed herself to fold into his embrace.

After several moments, the silence became awkward, and she drew away

"So," Jordan said, sticking her hands in the back pockets of her jeans.

He recognized the beginning of one of their frequent song-and-dance conversations. They type where pleasantries are exchanged, or work was discussed, and nothing ever said about their feelings for each other. Suddenly weary, he let himself drop down to the couch. "I'm sorry, Jordan."

She frowned. "Aren't I the one who's supposed to be sorry?" She brought her hands out from her pockets, clasping them together for a moment before stepping over to the couch to sit beside him. "What are you sorry for?" A trace of wariness laced her voice.

He sighed and started to fiddle with his sling. "For a lot of things. For shouting at you in your apartment that night, and leaving the next day without telling you anything. And for trying to control your life before that."

"Yeah, I didn't really like that. But I'm the one who should be sorry."

He frowned a moment, then touched the scar that crossed his forehead. "For this? Jordan, it was an accident. I'm sure you weren't aiming for my head."

"Actually," she said, guilt etching her features, "I'm pretty sure I was."

His eyebrows raised in slight surprise. "Really."

She shrugged, her expression sheepish. "Yeah. I say 'pretty sure' because I can't really remember much about that night. But it's not the only thing I'm apologizing for." She took a deep breath. "What I'm really sorry for is putting you in that position in the first place. I practically forced you to lookout for me whenever we went out."

"Jordan, I'm your friend, aren't I. Of course I would look out –"

She held up a hand. "Yeah, but I shouldn't have put you in that position. I took advantage of you, knowing that you'd watch out for me no matter how much we weren't getting along. Then it all came to a head that night when… Well, you know what happened better than I do."

"How much do you remember?"

"I just get flashes here and there. I remember holding a glass in my hand, and seeing you standing near my refrigerator, but that's about it. Nigel and Garret wanted to see if I'd remember on my own, but after a while, when it became clear that I wasn't going to remember at all, they filled in the gaps."

He cleared his throat. "So… how're you doing with all that?"

She nodded her head slightly, shaking loose a tendril of hair from her ponytail. "Pretty good, actually. That night, and the fact that I blacked out for about 24 hours after that, were really good motivators for getting off the bottle. I went to an AA meeting a few days later, and haven't really looked back since."

"I'm glad Jordan. Good for you. But AA? What about the whole issue about accepting a higher power during the twelve steps? Wouldn't you have a problem with that?"

"Ah, but you just answered your own question. During the steps, you're asked to acknowledge a higher power than yourself. It doesn't have to be God though. It took me a few different groups for me to find one that I felt comfortable with and that helped me understand that."

Woody didn't say anything, and Jordan the opportunity to look closer at him, noticing again the dark circles that ran under his eyes, his pale skin tone and the worry and pain lines across his brow.

"Are you sure you're okay? Do you need me to take you to the hospital or something?"

He closed his eyes and sagged down further on the couch, letting his head rest against the back. "No. I'm good. I'm just tired, and happy to finally be home."

"Home?"

Woody heard the hesitation in her voice and opened his eyes to look at her. "Yeah. Home," he said, letting one corner of his mouth drift upwards.

He wasn't sure what exactly he was going to say next but he was interrupted when he heard the squeak of rubber-soled shoes dashing through the hall. Bug's voice echoed off the glass and stone walls of the corridor. "Jordan, you're not going to believe this. We finally got the bodies from the mob crackdown, and one of them is Ca –"

Bug stopped in mid sentence as he swung into Jordan's doorway, and saw Woody looking back at him. Still grasping the doorway, he stood there, suddenly silent.

"Jeez, Bug. Working on your imitation of a fish?" Jordan teased.

"No, no, that's – that's not what I… I," Bug stammered.

"It's okay, Bug. I know. Go ahead and tell her."

Jordan quickly glanced over at the man sitting next to her. Woody's voice had reverted to the quiet, almost defeated tone she had heard when he first entered her door. Looking back up at Bug, she asked carefully, "What were you going to say, Bug?"

Bug was looking at his left hand, which still clung to the doorway. "One of the bodies… we've…" He looked at Jordan, avoiding Woody's eyes, "we've identified one of the bodies as Calvin Hoyt."


	10. Jordan Finally

**Chapter 9: Jordan**

Jordan gasped. "Are you sure it's him?"

Bug nodded. "Both Nigel and I identified him, and the prints just confirmed it." Bug nervously looked around the room some more, avoiding their eyes before finally looking back at Jordan. "Jordan, I'm sorry, but… well, there's a lot of evidence to go through and we've got several bodies. We're going to need your help." He paused. "Look, I'll tell Garret that you'll be a bit longer…" He nodded in her direction before quickly closing the door and going back the way he had come.

Jordan waited until she heard Bug exit the hallway, slamming through the doors into Trace, before looking back at Woody, whose own eyes were staring at the floor. 

"I think you've had a harder time than I have. Do you want to talk about it?"

"No…"

"Are you sure? This sounds like something you shouldn't –"

"You didn't let me finish. No. I don't _want_ to talk about it. But I should, and I'm going to." His voice was flat and he was staring straight ahead, at the foot of her desk. "I should probably start at the beginning…"

Jordan waited, not sure what or if she should say anything. Woody took a deep shuddering breath…

"After I left your place that night, I came here and talked with Nigel and Garret. They stitched me up, and I had some time to think. I knew that I wasn't doing you any favors covering everything up the way I had been. I realized it would be best for you if I stayed away from you, forced you to confront your own problem head on. But I also knew that I wouldn't be able to do that… not without leaving myself, anyway. Renee had asked me a couple times if I wanted to do this undercover job." He shrugged. "It seemed like a good time to take it, so I did.

"I went undercover as a bouncer for a mob boss. Cut my hair, dressed a little differently." One corner of his mouth lifted wistfully. "The cut across my forehead you gave me probably helped. Made me look more dangerous. Anyway, I worked there for about three weeks, got in a few fights – broke my nose," he said, ran a finger down the now crooked bridge of his nose. Worked my way up in the organization, and ended up as the right hand man for a guy named Michael Andriano, who as it turned out, was Torretti's right hand man. I was in a pretty good position to get information and relay it back to Walcott and Captain Fischer. I dug it, played double agent. And everything was going smoothly, at least until two weeks ago."

"That was when Cal showed up?" she guessed.

He nodded. "I knew that Andriano had tapped an addict to make some runs for them, and that the guy had been doing it for a few weeks, but I didn't meet him until one night at a bar in New York. I had a hell of a time keeping my cool when I recognized him. I wanted to drag him outside and rip him a new one, but I couldn't say anything. I know he recognized me, and I know I said at least one prayer that night hoping to God that Cal was smart enough not to give me away. A few days later, I managed to get him alone. I told him that I was undercover, and that things would be coming to a head soon, and if he followed my lead, I'd get him out. He just said, "Sure, whatever.""

Woody ran a hand through his hair, then stood and began to awkwardly pace in small circles. "There was supposed to be a big drop, a big sale that Torretti himself was going to oversee. I'd gotten enough evidence –fingerprints, documents, computer files – that we'd be able to make the bust. We had enough evidence to arrest even Torretti himself on charges of racketeering, possession, conspiracy, even murder – the whole nine yards. It wasn't supposed to go down until next week, but Torretti moved it up for some reason. I barely had enough time to sneak out and warn Boston PD. Everything moved so fast – we got there, then Andriano was checking the goods and then all the sudden Torretti said he thought someone was a mole. That he'd heard from some little 'boidies' that someone was singing to the cops."

"And that's when the fighting started?"

Woody shook his head. "Not quite. Torretti went from man to man, getting in their faces, accusing them of being the mole. I managed to throw him off the scent when he questioned me; I had an alibi for one of the things he accused me of… but then he got to Cal."

"He thought Cal was the mole?"

Woody shook his head again. "I don't think so. I don't think he thought Cal had the nerve. But it didn't take him too many questions to figure out that Cal knew who the mole was. Torretti started threatening him, and when that didn't get anywhere, he started bribing him. Offered him money, drugs. And that's when he gave me up."

Jordan sat there gaping, staring at Woody, who had stopped pacing and was fiddling with his sling again. "Your own brother gave up to the mob?"

He pounded his fist against his good leg. "Yup. The minute Cal was offered more drugs, he sold me out. I couldn't believe it. I froze. I froze, and in that instant," he held two fingers close together between their gaze, "that tiny instant where I wondered how the little brother that I had helped raise could betray me, Andriano and Torretti pulled their guns. By then I had pulled mine too, but that fraction of a second cost me. One bullet hit my vest, breaking a couple ribs and the other went through my shoulder before I could dive behind some crates."

"Jesus, Woody…"

He resumed his pacing. "The vice team outside had been listening to a wire I was wearing, so they'd already figured out that things were going to hell in a hand basket. After those first shots, there was just gunfire everywhere. It's all kind of a blur, but before I knew it, the good guys had won and both clips of my gun were empty."

Jordan finally stood, coming over to where he now stood on the other side of her office, facing away from her. Hesitatingly, she reached up to put one hand on his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Woody," she said softly.

"Thanks," he replied softly. His good hand reached up, covering hers where it rested on his shoulder. After a moment, he turned back towards her, not letting go of her hand. "I just… I just don't understand, Jo. How could he do something like that? I mean, I'm sure he was mad at me for being so mad at him, but…"

"Stop it Woody. It wasn't anything you did. Your brother made his choice. And he had a lot of chances to get out, but he kept making the same choice." For once, finally, Jordan felt strong in such an emotionally charged situation. For once, she felt like she could help, like she could do something. She squeezed the hand that still held hers. "You showed him the path, Wood. You helped him; you took care of him after your parents died, helped him to NA, AA, GA, all the other whatever-A's. You set a good example and became a good cop, a good man. What he did after was his choice. It was _nothing_ _you did_."

He nodded lightly, but bit one corner of his lip. Finally, he asked the question he had wanted to ask her since that one moment where his brother had betrayed him. "Was it… was it because he was addicted?"

Jordan started. She took her hand back and stuffed both hands in the back pocket of her jeans. Looking into his eyes, she could see that he was desperate for answers. That he was at a complete loss. The fragmented blue was brightened by the tears she knew he was holding back.

She took a breath, looking down. Her gaze settled on the fingers of his right hand, which lay cradled against his chest by the sling. His fingertips, rougher from lifting weights and whatever else he had been doing for the past three months, alternated between tapping against his chest and clenching into a fist. Finally, "It could be."

"That's it? It could be? So it could be something else. That he was a screwed up kid because I –" His voice rose with every word.

"Woody."

He stopped at her voice, abruptly collapsing onto the couch and burying his head in his hands. "Please, Jordan. Just give me the answer. Why did my little brother have to die?"

Jordan sat on the couch and ran her hand along his back, hoping to soothe him. He didn't shy from her touch, but leaned into it, and she felt herself relaxing. "I can't say for certain Woody. Cal is – was the only person who can answer that, so we'll never know. But I do know this. To realize that you are addicted is one of the hardest things. And even when you do, it's hard to ignore the drive behind it. You know it's wrong, but you keep wanting to do whatever it is you're addicted to. And from what I've learned, it's harder to stop the longer you've been addicted."

"So, if he'd gotten better help sooner…?"

"No. That's not what I'm saying. You gave him so much help, just like you did for me. It was his choice what he did with it."

"But I gave him the wrong kind of help. Just like I did for you. I just made things worse for you; I enabled you. It wasn't until I _left_ that you started to get better. I coddled Calvin just like I did you. So what happened to him is my fault."

"Damn it Woody! Will you stop trying to take the blame for your brother's mistakes!"

He looked up suddenly at her outburst. "Jordan, I –"

"Look, Hoyt, this is the last time I'm going to tell you. What happened today was Not. Your. Fault. Yes, you tried to help your brother. And maybe it wasn't the kind of help that he needed. But Woody, you tried the tough love approach too, remember? Six months ago. You did everything in your power to help him. What happened to him was a result of the choices he made, today and for the past twenty years. And from what got when I met him, I could see that he wasn't stupid; he knew the risks, and he made the same damn choices anyway.

Woody stared at her a moment longer, not saying anything, just allowing a meaningful silence to settle over them both. After what seemed like forever, Jordan saw the despair begin to leave his eyes. His shoulders dropped, and he fell back against the couch. "I know. I was just… I don't know… hoping that… that…"

"That it was someone else's fault? Even if that someone was you."

He was still for a while, but then nodded.

Neither one said anything for awhile. Abruptly the silence was broken by the sound of someone tapping on her glass window. Looking up, she saw Lily in the doorway. Lily was mouthing something, which Jordan was able to interpret as, "They need you now." Jordan nodded, but held up one finger, signaling that she would be just a minute longer. Looking back at Woody, she asked him, "What are you going to do now?"

He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose with the hand of his good arm. "I'm not really sure. I have to take care of Cal; I want to take him home and bury him next to mom and dad. But first, I have to stop by the station and turn in my report. And I'm going to have to find a new apartment and get all my stuff out of storage… Jeez, remind me never to go undercover again."

Jordan watched his hand fall heavily back to his side. His eyes remained closed. It was easy to see that the adrenaline that had built up over the last few hours was wearing off fast. She had no doubt that what he needed to do most right now was sleep. She stood and reached to the far corner of the couch, pulling out the throw blanket that had been pushed into the corners of the couch. "Well Woods, my 'professional' opinion, is that you look like you're dead on your feet. No pun intended. So, why don't you just take a nap on the couch here, while I go help them process all the evidence? As soon as I can, I'll come back and help you take care of all that stuff, okay?" While she spoke, she put one hand on his shoulder, guiding him carefully into a more comfortable position. And he let her.

As she draped the blanket over his torso and shoulders, he eyes cracked open, revealing a hint of his bright blue eyes. "You'll come back?"

"Hey… no worries, okay? I promise," she agreed when he started to frown. "And you'll still be here when I come back, right?"

"No, I won't walk away again," he replied sleepily, eyes drifting shut, this time in sleep rather than weariness.

Jordan opened the door, but hovered in the doorway a bit longer, waiting until she heard his breathing even out. "And I'll never give you reason to," she promised.

Quietly, she closed the door, and went to help the others.


End file.
